A Past Worth Forgetting
by CassanderRoshack
Summary: John finds out that Sherlock's father died. When he asks if Sherlock is alright, he gets a piece of Sherlock's past he never knew about. He also discovers that Sherlock is more human than he could have ever imagined. A lot of Angst in this one folks.


"My father died." Sherlock answered John after he had asked why he had been at Mycrofts for a few hours. He didn't know what emotion to express and he held his breath waiting for the man to answer. He'd surely say something along the lines of "Oh god, I'm so sorry" or something similar. John was… kind, because he meant it. Sherlock sighed rubbing his eyes. He couldn't ask for a better man but he didn't need 'sorry' at the moment.

"Ah." John was quiet. He really didn't know what to say. Moreover, he didn't know how Sherlock felt about his father. He could give the standard, "I'm sorry" because that was what people usually said in these times, but Sherlock wasn't most people. After a few more seconds of deliberation he asked, "Tea?" It was the British cure-all from the sniffles to heartbreak.

Sherlock looked at him funny for a moment before laughing lightly, "Yes, I'd love a spot." He couldn't help but laugh. "You are such a mystery, John. You do the exact opposite that I expect you to do sometimes." He thought but choose to keep his thoughts to himself. "Coming right up," John said over his shoulder as he set to banging about the kitchen. "So if Sherlock had the gall to laugh even after his father died, he must be all right... Maybe…?"

Sherlock didn't show the one tear made a path down his face. He remembered those few memories with his father very well. "I haven't lost anything... it just feels slightly... foreign." He muttered, thinking of when his father, a similar man in looked to Mycroft had smiled at him and ruffled his hair while he worked.

"What are you up to Sherlock?" The man asked him before ruffling his dark hair. He smiled at him and he swallowed. Sherlock knew better than else what hid behind that smile. His eyes were his father's and he saw the monster in the mirror every time he looked into the mirror.

He felt something tighten in his chest. He also remembered the night he had left. Sherlock and what remained of his family were happy when he had gone… If only he had stayed away…

"I'm done with you, you filthy whore! Are these children even mine? I wish you hadn't been able to get pregnant bitch!" He had stormed into the next room where Sherlock was and eyed him. "What the fuck are you looking at?" He screamed and banged out of the door leaving his family alone until the next day...

Sherlock mentally forced himself to stop thinking. He didn't want to think about what happened that next day or what passed between him and his father multiple times before hand. He briefly wondered why on earth he hadn't deleted that memory yet. Surely he didn't need it and he sure as hell didn't want it.

John's attention was on the tea the whole time as he prepared two mugs. "Oh, you didn't really know him then, huh?" he asked hearing Sherlock's soft comment, stirring sugar into one mug. Sherlock's tea since no one else in the house, not even Mrs. Hudson, liked it that way. "Mycroft certainly did. Spent years with him, in fact. I choose to stay with my mother to take care of her and Maria." Sherlock instantly wanted to take the words back. "No need to panic, John won't care… or will he?"

"Maria?" John walked into the sitting room and offered Sherlock his tea before sitting on one end of the sofa. If Sherlock wanted a hug or a shoulder to cry on, it'd be easier to do it there. Not that Sherlock would do that, of course. What Sherlock said next shocked him. "Maria was my younger sister." He breathed out. "After my father lost his job with the police force, mother couldn't feed us all on one paycheck. We had to go without many things… you understand. She died sick, hungry and cold... there was nothing we could do..." Sherlock felt a tear run down his cheek yet again as he remembered her. Her long dark curly black hair like his, light blue eyes and was rather short but was sharp as a tack like all of the Holmes family.

"A younger sister?" He always imagined Mycroft and Sherlock only had the mysterious woman called 'Mummy', but that was ridiculous. Sherlock was... crying? About a sister John never knew he had? "Hey..." he said softly, tugging on Sherlock's sleeve, so he'd sit down from staring out of the window. "It's not your fault." The man cleared his throat, "I couldn't save her, John..." He whispered, feeling the pain in his chest grow but he would not break down; at least not in front of his flat-mate. "My father left us to die in that two roomed so called house while he took Mycroft to higher pastures. My mother whored herself to put food on the table and my sister died because I couldn't do a damn thing but watch!"

"How old were you when this happened? You couldn't have done anything, Sherlock," John said softly and calmly as he watched his flat-mate's chest move in the stirrings of emotions he didn't claim to have. It was haunting how it seemed they switched roles like this. John felt his own chest tighten in sympathy. He dared to place his hand on Sherlock's back, rubbing lightly as he tried to soothe him.

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock hated himself more than he had ever hated his brother or father. "She was seven and I was ten..." He muttered wishing that the pains in his chest that were strangling him would just go away. "I shouldn't bother you with this." He whipped his eyes and sniffed trying to calm himself. This was unbecoming of anyone, especially to throw on someone out of the blue. Why did his monster of a father have to die today for fuck's sake!

"See? You were so young, Sherlock. No one that young deserves to be burdened with that. To grow up so fast-it just can't be done." And John knew what he was talking about. Too well, in fact. He'd seen it in the eyes of the children in Afghanistan. He'd seen it in Harry's eyes since she was older than him by a few years. "Shh, it's fine." If anything, John was selfishly happy that Sherlock would confide in him. "I'm here if you need anything."

"There could have been. I'd pickpocketed enough by then. I have no love lost for my father because I know what he did to Maria and I. He's better off dead." He paused glancing over at John who was looking at him with gaze cross between sympathy and pain. "I know..." Sherlock cleared his throat and patted his knee gently. "Thank you." Another memory suddenly flashed in his head, a much darker one and he tried to force it out of his head.

His father stood over his sister. Sherlock knew what he was doing and it took a discarded bottle from the floor, cracking it over his own fathers head to get him away from her. His father had hit him, making his face swell and he took his sister away from him. Next thing he knew, while his sister hid in the closet because mother had a customer in the back his father did what he was going to do to her... to Sherlock. He had screamed, so loudly until his father put a gun to his face and made him swallow one of the bullets by choking it down his throat with his...

Sherlock shook, for the first time in years; his body shook completely and uncontrollably. More dark memories came, the time when he had caught his father with another woman or by god, what he did to his own mother. He swallowed trying to think of something else before that one memory came back to his head.

Maria's stricken face consumed him. Her blue eyes pleading as their father raped her while he was tied up to the radiator. Sherlock begged to take it instead; he'd do it willingly this time. Just leave her alone. "Please father, please!" The radiator burned through the ratty outfit he was wearing. That was where the scar on his leg was from after all. He'd been gagged after that and forced to watch. Thrown away like rag doll. Maria died a few days after that. Mycroft didn't care a bit because he was off at an academy, having father's other mistress pay for his schooling.

"It's over now. You're free. You're all right," John cooed. It was almost imperceptible, but John felt Sherlock's muscles quiver under his hand. He couldn't possibly know what was running through his flat-mate's head, but if it was enough to cause Sherlock of all people, so much pain, the family situation must've been worse than he thought. John's hand went to Sherlock's far shoulder and he tugged gently until they were in a half hug. Not too close, not too far. He was afraid the man might shatter before his eyes.  
"He wasn't my father." Sherlock said softly, but filled with anger and pain. "He was a monster that raped his children and beat his wife." The detective turned even to hug John tightly before letting go and patting him on the shoulder. "Pardon me, John. I'm having a rare moment that I have no idea what my emotions are doing." He breathed in and out slowly.

"Oh, God. Is that what happened to him?" But saying instead,"People change sometimes. Sometimes they become people we don't know." He wished he can hold onto Sherlock more, but if he wanted to let go, he would let him. He'll do just anything for him right now. "It's... okay, Sherlock. What you're feeling, it's normal." Even when they pulled apart, John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed, looking into his eyes. "I won't think less about you, I promise."

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to get grip on himself. "Damn, not your flat-mate thinks you a barking lunatic more than ever. For god sake man, get a grip! Your father raped you; get the hell over it already!" He told himself, mentally kicking at the memories until they were locked in a box in the back of his head. Maybe he would go see Maria's grave sometime... He glanced at his companion, "I know, John... I know." He squeezed John's hand tightly. "Just... don't go..." He breathed, so quietly John barely could hear it.

Sherlock hated to admit it. But he needed John to be there at the moment. It wasn't because he was going to go off the deep end, he'd already done that... he just needed someone he trusted nearby. It had been almost fifteen years since he had uttered her name. Let alone thought of the things his father had done. His mother was no pearl either. Mycroft didn't care about his past, only doing things to make his own life better. The only thing the man had ever done for his brother was send him off to school when he was old enough. Which Sherlock had come to understand what Mycroft did was right. That was a less painful way to go about living your life when your family was shit. You had to cut off the emotions... Another memory hit.

He walked into the room where Maria lay dead. "Maria... Maria? MARIA!" He had screamed for help but his mother was drugged in the bathtub. His brother was gone and his father was passed out in the kitchen from the alcohol he'd consumed... He had to bury her alone in the backyard at the age of ten. His sister, the one who he wanted to protect from everything. Even giving his meals to her when food was scarce. They didn't even know she was gone for a week... His father had smacked him around for not looking after her. His mother had shed a tear before saying happily, "Finally, we'll have one less mouth to feed." Like it was her plan all along.

He broke. Just leaned his head against John's shoulder and let the tears flow. His face didn't get red like others nor did he start weeping. He silently cried, not showing a sign he was on his face or tone. His tears were almost clear and left pathways that told a thousand tales of pain. "For a genius, you really are an idiot sometimes." John was trying to lighten the mood, but didn't have his heart in it. Honestly was the best way to go right now. "I won't leave. Where else would I go?"

Apparently, that might've been the wrong thing to say because Sherlock started crying. "Christ, Sherlock, I..." He set his rapidly cooling mug down and turned, putting his arms around Sherlock, so they'd be comfortable at least. With Sherlock pillowed between his chin and shoulder, he returned his hand to rubbing his back, this time making circles he hoped were soothing. He was here to hold Sherlock through it, no matter how long it took. He was quite glad Sherlock was finally releasing his pain because if he wouldn't do it, John would've done it for him. Ever since he and Sherlock met, he knew they had some sort of connection. Why else would he unwaveringly follow a man he barely knew and kill a man for him the second night into their acquaintance. It was that connection that made him feel pain whenever Sherlock was hurting. If only a doctor like himself can heal a heart with a scalpel.

Sherlock felt like his word was crashing down and the only thing that was keeping him together was John's arms. He hadn't let these emotions out in fifteen years. He had sworn the moment Mycroft physically pushed him onto the train to school that he'd never feel this pain again. He'd hated and burnt relationship after relationship, trying to free himself of the pain, but now it was starting to liberate him. Feeling his thoughts break into his reality. "I need to go back there... John... I need someone to come with me." He gasped out.

"Of course I'll go with you, Sherlock." No one else will if I don't! Definitely not bloody Mycroft Holmes. He never really liked the man, and now he understood why Sherlock hated him so much. "You don't have to, but if it helps." Sherlock needed to closure. He needed to see the end to all this, so he can move on. Sherlock got up from the couch and grabbed his jacket, stopping momentarily to use a tissue to clean up his face off. "Let's get this over with." He walked down the stairs, knowing the way well. Less than three miles southeast was his old home in the worse side of town before it was remodeled. He wanted to end this. He needed to end this.

He was glad the cry helped; it was difficult to walk with excess baggage. He'd never even known that Sherlock had such a past. John struggled into his own coat, following wherever it is that they were going. He just hoped that if he ever got to see Mycroft, he wouldn't get him alone and punch him in the face. And maybe even in the solar plexus a few times for not doing a damn thing about what happened.

Sherlock practically ran the three miles until they stopped at a little building next to the port. There were still tears in his eyes as he walked in, pushing the door slightly open walking into the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. He looked around swallowing; the house was abandoned now of course. He walked through it, his shoes making dust clouds. There were holes in the wall that he knew came from his father's fists. He saw the closet that Maria hid in had been untouched. The windows were still boarded up and the only light came from a hole in the ceiling.

He remembered watching the stars and asking Mycroft what they were when he was younger. "No one has been here in fifteen years..." He whispered before going into the back room. There were four rusty mattresses there that had been only used by rats and dirt for almost a decade and a half. Like it was some kind of echo from the past, there was a tiny toy on the ground. It was dirty to the point you couldn't see its true color anymore. Sherlock picked it up from the ground, seeing it was Maria's stuffed cat that she had.

It used to be blue and Sherlock walked through a hole in the wall that a door used to hang. He walked a few more steps into a junk yard of wood and beer bottles. In a particularly clean area, where wild flowers grew, he stopped. He leaned down where a rock sat unmoved for years as well. He placed the toy next to it and sighed. "There is a gas station down the street. I need to get a few cans." He turned to John, "Thank you..." He said it so softly and filled with meaning the other times seemed to be half-hearted. "No need to thank me. I'll do whatever you need, Sherlock." John said before turning on the spot and heading to the gas station. He had no idea what the man was planning, but he'd make sure he got it done none the less.

A little while later, John and Sherlock stood outside the house. They had emptied the entire batch of six gas cans on the house. From inside his pocket, Sherlock withdrew a pack of unused cigarettes and a lighter. John didn't comment when Sherlock took one out of the packet and offered him one. The doctor hated the habit of smoking but he let Sherlock lite his up anyway. The taller of the two tossed the rest of the pack into the house through a crack in the door's windows. In one swift motion he lit the lighter and tossed it into the house.

In less than fifteen minutes, the once home of the Holmes family was up in flames. "Is it over?" John asked quietly from beside the man. Sherlock had stopped crying the moment he had cleaned his sister's grave of the weeds that had grown there. "No, John. It will never be over. But a chapter is finished." He whispered and put out the cigarette. John did the same and followed him as they walked away together. "The fire department will be coming soon. They fear a fire in London like a dog does a vet." He said turning the corner.  
John reached out and slowed him by the arm. "Sherlock…" He began softly and pulled him into a hug. "You don't need to keep things from me. I will be there for you. No matter what happens, I will be there." He said and the man looked down at him. "What would I be without my… friend." He swallowed allowing himself to hug the smaller. "I don't think I could have done that without your help." John shook his head. "Can we go hit Mycroft now?" He asked pleadingly. Sherlock laughed, "Yes, lets."


End file.
